Feeding Our Brains: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku

If you won’t feed me,/
allow me in your kitchen./
Let me help you cook.

Get Used To It: Romantic Blogging Poetry

It’s been a long time
since
you winced
but said yes
to going out.

I doubt
you’re used to
being picked up,
being asked what you thought,
being walked home when the evening’s through.

It might seem like forever since
you were asked to dance;
were romanced;
felt the bliss
of a first kiss;
just took a walk
to find time to talk;
had someone say
“You look pretty today.”

You’re not used to
being cooked for;
thinking “Bitte, more”;
having your door opened for you;
having your heart opened for you.

If you understood
how incredibly good
it is, I’ll bet
you could
get used to it.
You should.

A Redhead Asks: Can You Cook? A Romantic IMprov Sonnet

My ability to cook depends on which room I’m in.
Four burners? Or a king, queen, or twin?
A twin is like stir fry: quick, steamy and hot;
King or queen like slow basted barbeque, simmering, not

rapidly slammed down,
nor overly steamy;
but tender, warm, comfortable,
tasty and dreamy.

So, in the end,
you have to decide
what type of meal
down your palate will glide!

What enjoyment you’ll feel;
which temperment you’ll reveal.